


Breaking and Entering

by bea_flowers



Category: The Night Manager (TV)
Genre: Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Minor Violence, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Rough Sex, Smut, Spanking, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:07:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29882265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bea_flowers/pseuds/bea_flowers
Summary: You get caught rifling through Jonathan Pine's—formerly Richard Roper's—secret study and are punished for it. (Takes place after episode 6, in which Jonathan becomes the new Roper.)
Relationships: Jonathan Pine & You, Jonathan Pine & reader, Jonathan Pine/Reader, Jonathan Pine/You
Kudos: 9





	Breaking and Entering

Eleven o’clock, every morning—that’s when they test the alarm outside Jonathan Pine’s private study. With Jonathan and company off somewhere in South Asia and the staff otherwise occupied, the Majorca estate is vacant for the first time in weeks. Except for you, of course.

You need to get into that study. You need to know who this man really is, why he’s kept you on the property, and what he has to gain by keeping you here. You’re confident it’s nothing good, but it’s better to know exactly how much danger you’re in. Knowing _has_ to be better than driving yourself to madness by spending each countless hour in confinement cooking up nightmare scenarios by the thousands… Doesn’t it?

At 10:58, you sneak out of the guest bedroom and around the circular corridor. You gingerly twist the doorknob to Jonathan’s room and slip inside, closing the door silently behind you. You’re light on your toes as you pad over to the armed door. You keep your hand on the doorknob and take a beat to look around.

The room is immaculate, too precisely organized to be taken care of by the staff who tend to the rest of the estate. The bedsheets are wrinkle-free and perfectly folded around the corners of the mattress, a habit Jonathan probably picked up during his time in the military. A pair of slippers lay parallel to the foot of his bed. The first-edition books on his dresser are stacked by length, sculpted into a pyramid. Even the Rolex on his bedside table looks like it belongs there.

The alarm blares and you spring into action, flinging the door open and shutting it quickly behind you.

You’re mindful of how little time you have to investigate and barrel down the stairs. The study mirrors Jonathan’s bedroom: sparse, clean, orderly. A landscape print of the picturesque Devon countryside hangs over a modern-looking fireplace. The fireplace is flanked by two black leather armchairs, a sleek glass coffee table between them. A walnut shelf spans the back wall, filled with hardcover books, miniature statues, and a pair of iron horse-shaped bookends.

Jonathan’s desk sits opposite the fireplace, pulled a few feet away from the wall to accommodate the leather desk chair. The desk is walnut, just like the bookshelf, and the surface is covered with a dark green desk protector, holding a single fountain pen in a velvet case, a round glass paperweight, and an antique banker’s lamp.

The desk. That’s where you’ll start.

You’re careful not to nudge the rolling chair. Jonathan is perceptive; he would notice. You slide the top drawer open. Nothing there but a few BIC ballpoint pens, paperclips, and rubber bands. You move onto the second drawer—blank legal pads and empty file folders, nothing of interest. You crouch to open the third and final drawer, but it won’t budge. You tug at the handle; it must be stuck… Or is it locked?

The alarm stops. That can’t be right. You should have a full minute. You haven’t been down here longer than thirty seconds. You freeze in place, plunged into silence, save for your shaky breaths. How are you going to get out of here? If you open the door, even from the inside, the alarm will go off and you’ll be found in seconds.

That’s when you hear it: the footsteps.

The stairs squeal with heavy footfalls as someone comes down. The steps are slow, measured, unhurried. You screw your eyes shut and clamp a hand over your mouth. _This cannot be happening, this cannot be happening, this cannot be_ —

“I know you’re down here,” Jonathan sings.

A cold weight settles heavily in your stomach.

Jonathan’s footsteps and voice get louder as he reaches the bottom of the staircase. “Really, darling, there’s no use hiding. Best to come out now.”

Fear courses through you. You hug your knees into your chest and dip your head into the space between your kneecaps and breasts, making yourself as small as possible. The desk surface creaks. You unravel and crane your neck to see Jonathan leaning over, staring at you.

“There you are.”

He moves quickly, too quickly. He rounds the desk, hurls the rolling chair aside, and drags you to your feet. He wedges you between the desk and his hard body. You struggle in his bruising grasp.

“You’re a curious one, aren’t you?” he grumbles through gritted teeth. He shakes your shoulders, dislodging a strangled sob. “Didn’t your mother tell you prying through other people’s things is impolite? Especially if that person is the one feeding and housing you.”

The unwise words leave your mouth before you can stop them: “You’re not housing me, you’re trapping me!” you shriek.

A wild rage burns behind Jonathan’s eyes. “Is that what you think?” he yells.

You feel cold under his icy glare. “No, I—I didn’t,” you stammer. A tear falls down your cheek. Jonathan snarls and strikes you with the back of his hand.

You lift your palm to your stinging face and look at him, eyes wide and lips parted in shock and fear. Jonathan may be frightening, but he has never hurt you before. Now, his eyes burn with wild rage, his nostrils flare, and his chest heaves.

“I’m sorry,” you weep. “I only wanted answers—why I’m here, what you want from me.”

Jonathan cocks a brow and narrows his eyes, something evil stirring in them. “You really want to know what I want from you?”

_Do you?_

You lift your hand to your cheek, still warm from Jonathan’s slap, and gulp. “Yes.”

Jonathan smirks smugly and licks his lips. He hooks his palm around the back of your neck and tilts your face up.

“You may regret saying that.”

He forces his mouth against yours. Your body responds on instinct, returning his fervent kiss and molding your body to his. Jonathan’s free hand roams down your body, stopping at your chest to palm your breast through your thin sundress. He groans into your mouth when he feels your nipple harden under his palm.

He releases your neck and tears his lips from yours. He continues to palm your right breast while he yanks the strap of your sundress down your left arm. He stamps open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, his moans vibrating against your skin. He pulls your dress down further.

You cling to the edge of the desk for stability as he chains wet kisses over your exposed breast. He flicks the tip of his tongue over your nipple and tugs it lightly between his teeth, tugging a weak whimper from your mouth with it. Jonathan paws at your waist and lower back, drawing you closer.

You tremble under his steadfast form, more from confusion than fear, and tighten your white-knuckle grip on the desk. After months in isolation, you’ve barely spent any time with him. What you know about him—his time in the military, his past working for the British government, his change of heart after Roper’s capture and death at the hands of his jilted customers—you’ve learned from his gossipier associates; associates that never stay around for long.

What you’ve gleaned from the short time you’ve been in Jonathan’s company is the undeniable truth that every move he makes is calculated to the second. Which can only mean that this moment, in his greedy hands, has been meticulously planned as well.

Jonathan notices the way your body has gone rigid under his. He raises his head and meets your anxious gaze. His lips brush against yours as he murmurs, “You question my intentions?”

You don’t respond.

“You expect me to punish you.” It isn’t a question.

Jonathan ghosts the backs of his fingers against your hot cheek, making you flinch. He chuckles once, the corner of his mouth quirking into a lopsided sneer. “If punishment is what you want, punishment is what you’ll get.”

He spins you around and pushes you down face-first, pinning your left cheek to the desk. The leather desk protector irritates your sensitive nipples. Jonathan flips up the skirt of your dress and yanks off your underwear, letting it drop to the floor and pool around your ankles. You feel his cock straining through his trousers against the backs of your thighs as he leans over, brings his lips to your ear, and whispers, “Count for me, darling.”

The first comes without warning, firm and forceful against your ass. You cry out and clamp your palms around the front edge of the desk. Jonathan growls, “I told you to count for me.” He brings down another smack. You jerk forward and squeeze your eyes shut.

“Two,” you wheeze.

He laughs. “I do believe you’ve forgotten how to count properly.” Another smack. You wince and bite your tongue to keep the whimpering at bay. “Start at the beginning.”

“One.”

Jonathan runs his hand up your spine under your dress. “Good girl,” he snickers.

The fourth— _second_ —spank is harder than the others. The next brings tears to your eyes. The two following make you bite the tip of your tongue so hard you draw blood. The glass paperweight clatters as you shake against the desk surface, body racked with pain.

You shudder under Jonathan’s soft touch as he smooths his palm over your raw skin. You listen to the clink of his belt and screw your eyes shut, preparing yourself for the intrusion of his stiff cock. Instead, the leather belt whips the backs of your thighs, just below your ass. You shrink into the desk, openly weeping.

“Keep counting,” Jonathan hisses.

Your voice is so weak and hoarse, you barely hear it yourself: “Six.”

You count all the way to ten as Jonathan brings the belt down four more times, hitting every part of your ass, from the cheek to the base of your spine. The increasing force of his strikes shove you further into the desk, causing your clit to dig into its edge. The pleasurable jolts are your only reprieve from the searing pain on your backside.

Tears flow from your eyes freely when he finally drops his belt to the floor. Your body quakes in shock and falls limp. Jonathan combs the hair out of your sweat-drenched face, sending an anxious tremor through you.

“You were such a good girl,” he praises. “Have you learned your lesson, darling?” You nod and blink back the remaining tears. “I agree,” he says and skims his fingers between your lower lips. “And good girls get rewarded.”

Jonathan snakes his hand around your stomach and rubs your already sensitive clit furiously. A strangled squeal falls from your lips as your pleasure grows. Though his touch is unforgiving, he draws you nearer and nearer to the brink of release. He pumps the fingers of his other hand into your cunt vigorously, beckoning you to climax.

You wail, “Please, daddy, please let me come.”

You feel Jonathan’s cock, still secured in his trousers, twitch against your quaking thighs. A satisfied smile stretches across his face at the filthy way _that_ word falls from your desperate lips. He lays his chest over your back and nips at your ear. “Come for me.”

You do as you’re told. A scream tears through your throat. You pulse around his fingers, still moving inside you, and squirm under his relentless grasp. Your arousal drips down his hand and coats your inner thighs. The aftershocks fire violently through you as your orgasm comes to an end. Your knees buckle when Jonathan slips his fingers out of your cunt.

“What a good girl,” he coos, drying his slick hand on the back of your dress. You try to lift yourself onto your forearms, but Jonathan forces you down with a heavy hand cupped around the back of your neck. He unzips his trousers, forces them over his ass, and snarls, “My turn.”

Jonathan wastes no time teasing you. He thrusts into you swiftly, rough and hard. Your body easily stretches to accommodate him, your cunt molding around his thick cock like it was made for him alone. His fingertips dig into your hips, promising a cluster of small lavender bruises later, as he pulls you back onto his cock.

His pelvis snaps against your ass, filling the room with the sinful sound of skin on skin. He groans and grunts behind you, chasing his release. You feel a second orgasm building deep in your core and clench your cunt vise-like around his cock.

Jonathan groans at the feeling of your walls squeezing him, begging for release. “Are you going to come for me again, good girl?” he pants. “Ask first.”

You struggle to form the words, your brain swimming in a depraved pool of Jonathan’s making. “Can I come, daddy?” you moan, the beginning of your orgasm already tipping over the edge.

“Come on my cock, darling,” he says. “Show me what I do to you, how daddy makes you feel.” Your toes curl as you topple over the peak into a mind-numbing release. You sigh and melt into the desktop, a lazy smile gracing your flushed face.

Jonathan hastens his pace. He darts his hand between your legs and rubs your clit again. “Be a good girl now; come again,” he demands.

His touch is painful, your clit oversensitive and raw. “I can’t,” you whine.

“You can and you will.”

A dull cramp swells in your pelvis, your body thoroughly spent, but Jonathan rubs faster, harder, intent on ripping another orgasm from you if it kills him. A third climax surfaces, slowly and reluctantly. Though you’re sore and achy and utterly exhausted, you come for Jonathan once more. You pulse around his thick, throbbing cock and come undone. He pulls out, leaving you to clench around nothing, and empties himself onto your lower back.

Jonathan composes himself instantly. He straightens, backs away from you, smooths his shirt into the waistband of his trousers. You turn your head to watch him snatch his belt up off the floor and fasten it around his waist again.

He runs a hand through his hair and stares at you. Stone-faced, he says, “Clean yourself up and meet me in the loft. I’m not done punishing you yet.”

With that, Jonathan leaves you: ruined, bruised, and covered in his cum.


End file.
